Blessed Are They Who Know

No Town Can Fail Of Beauty, Though Its Walks Were Gutters And Its Houses Hovels, If Venerable Trees Make Magnificent Colonnades Along Its Streets.

May We Be Satisfied With Nothing That Shall Not Have In It Something Of Immortality.

What We Call Wisdom Is The Result Of All The Wisdom Of Past Ages. Our Best Institutions Are Like Young Trees Growing Upon The Roots Of The Old Trunks That Have Crumbled Away.

The Mere Wit Is Only A Human Bauble. He Is To Life What Bells Are To Horses-not Expected To Draw The Load, But Only To Jingle While The Horses Draw.

The One Great Poem Of New England Is Her Sunday.